The Birds
by Superagaentv
Summary: Round 3 Quidditch.
Round 3:

Prompt, Magpie

word count 950-1200

 _Rhyme_ _is an old folk song/rhyme_

* * *

 _One for sorrow,_

Sitting on the grass outside the school, Tom flipped through the pages of his potions textbook, somewhat bored. In an old notebook he was scribing something in code, his recipe to success, ensuring no one could read it. However, it wasn't a spell so much as an account of all that had transpired.

He had done the near impossible.

Now have had seven more to go.

The flittering of wings disturbed him. An odd sound to break his concentration, but no more so than the chittering noise that followed.

Glancing upwards he spied a familiar little bird, with the white and black painted carefully over its body, whose mere presence surprised him. Magpies were not known to frequent Hogwarts after all.

"What do you want?" he asked it, letting the cold snake like venom control his tone. "Fly away you stupid bird."

The tilt of its head was its only reply.

 _Two for joy,_

Resigning himself, Tom returned to his work; feeling the strength of the sunshine as it rained heat upon his neck. At least, that is what he should be feeling. Halting the movement of his quill, Tom realized something that puzzled him.

He could no longer feel the warmth of the sun.

Truthfully, he did not quite know if this should be worrisome after the events of the previous weekend. Pleasure was still keenly felt, that much was certain; he was overjoyed with how well it had worked. There was so much more to go, so much to accomplish.

As long as his plans were not interrupted by that bumbling fool, who was no more bumbling than Tom was innocent.

"Ow." he snarled, taking in air as he withdrew his fingers from his textbook, looking up to see another bird standing by his hand. "Bugger off." Its beak was open slightly, it's eyes meeting his with the same coldness he felt within his soul. He could have spelled it right then and there, alas there were people around.

"Got yourself a friend Tom!" One of his housemates called, requiring him to force a smile and a nod.

 _Three for a girl,_

Picking up a small stone from the grass, he fully intended to whip at the bird who was still contemplating nipping at his fingers again.

 _Something_ stopped him, a niggling feeling in the back of his mind that he couldn't shake. Turning his eyes to the first magpie, he blinked, there was another, almost identical, bird standing next to it. "Are you trying to tell me something?" he asked, unamused with himself for talking to this ragamuffin species. He was quite aware of the lore surrounding these birds, known for thieving and trickery, but also for intelligence.

 _Perhaps this is a Ravenclaw trick_ , he thought coldly as he watched his expression reflected in the birds eyes.

"Bloody nuisance." he growled once more, snapping his text book shut as he hastily withdrew his hand from the wayward black beak. "Go bother someone else."

He received a rather catty replied from the first bird, whose companions joined in shortly afterwards.

It was enough to drive anyone mad.

 _Four for a boy,_

Seriously considering leaving, Tom glanced down at the notebook and grimaced at the messy quality of his writing. Usually his work was so pristine, with writing to reflect his resolve. This looked very much like one of the magpies had written it.

Sighing, he began again.

It had been glorious.

He had been taught that to utter an unforgivable curse, one had to have murder in your heart; or at least a darkness, or willingness, to do someone harm.

He had not even needed to concentrate.

A flick of the wrist, the surge of power that flowed so freely from his wand, the…. _comforting_ coldness that filled the room.

The soulless glaze to her eyes.

He wanted to remember each moment, not for her immortality – but his own.

Jumping, Tom growled, waving his hand above his head where he was sure the black and white devils were sitting. His ear throbbed as badly as his finger, and he looked the for the culprit; willing it to spontaneously burst into flames.

This fourth bird landed not far away, puffing up its feathers; as if it had been offended by his fanatical waving.

"Served you right." he mused, eyeing it's limp where his hand had made contact with it. "Bloody menace."

"Thought you were going to the dogs, old chap," a fellow Slytherin prefect stated, walking easily up beside Tom on the bright sunny day. "Not the birds."

 _He thinks he's funny,_ Tom thought unamused, _poor sod._

Brandishing a smile, he acquiesced. "Well, I am irresistible, after all."

"And so very humble." the boy replied, eyeing the four birds with good humor. "So do you have a boy in your life?"

"Do I what?" Tom asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Four magpies." the boy continued, as is Tom's anger had gone undetected. "Four for a boy, I think it goes."

"And pray, what goes" he inquired as cheerfully as he could muster.

"It's a rhythm." The Prefect explained. "A witch once wrote that the number of magpies you see means something about your future. Or something like that."

 _Five for silver,_

"Hmm." Tom pretended to think hard for a moment, "What does it say about five birds?"

"Five?" the boy pondered for a moment, his eyes going from bird to bird as they chittered and chattered nearby. "Silver, I think. Something about silver."

"How very fitting." Tom stated as another bird landed close by. Each bird was staring at him s they talked, making him wonder what _exactly_ they were saying.

 _They're just birds_ , he thought, trying to pacify some worry that was illogical, _just birds_.

"Oh, that's right I meant to tell you." the boy was _still_ speaking. "Slughorn was looking for you."

"Thank you for telling me," Tom replied, looking now to this boy whose shadow had lingered in his sunshine too long, like Icarus. "I'll go now."

"See you in class, Tom."

He didn't bother replying.

 _Six for gold,_

Gathering his things was easy, swift, and orderly. His textbook was on the bottom, his notebook in the middle with the quill laying to rest on the top.

Ordered.

 _Slughorn will be in his office,_ Tom thought quickly, standing before he started to walk. His robes billowed out behind him, moved by an unfelt wind. In each step there was a restrained force, something buried deep within. He relished the thought that someday he would not have to hide this feeling from any singular being.

It was sudden, the swarm.

They rose like a mixed colored cloud, making enough noise to wake the dead.

Between the wing beats, nipping beaks, and increased feathered bodies, Tom was caught by surprise but the suddenly viscous attack.

Dropping his things, one hand went for his wand as the other flew to protect his face.

But as his lips were ready to utter the spell – they were gone, along with his notebook.

 _Seven for a secret never to be told._

In through the wall they flew.

Feathered bodies to human bodies grew.

With no hesitation, _it_ was thrown into isolation.


End file.
